The Wardrobe Read Online Free Page A

in that very same gown, my darling. Just think!
    I did think. I thought of the sons’ wives who had explored the wardrobe. I thought of the sons themselves who must have been told of the robe.
    I lifted the parcel out and laid back the tissue paper. There it was. In cream lace. Sitting on top of the old dressing gown. I stroked the satin ribbon and lifted the scalloped hem in my fingers. It was beautifully made.
    I felt a shiver run down my spine. Was it the ghosts of the wardrobe? No, I was cold, I told myself. Freezing, in fact. Although it was early spring, the night held a wintry chill. And so I put on Harry’s dressing gown. It was warm and clean and smelled of mothballs, and it seemed the natural thing to do.
    Then I curled up on the floor with the next letter, promising myself that it must be the last. Take yourself to bed, Nance, for God’s sake. It’s nearly one o’clock in the morning and there must be at least forty or fifty more letters to go, they’ll keep till the morning.
    My Dearest Darling,
    What can I say? There is nothing, of course, nothing I could say could possibly ease the burden of your sorrow. But you must be strong. For Harry’s sake as well as your own.
    Is it of any comfort to tell yourself that your little girl simply didn’t awake? That she slept peacefully on and knew no pain? Oh, Emily my dear, I feel so far away and so powerless when I do so long to help.
    So that was why there was no christening photo of Elizabeth Jane. Emily’s first child had been stillborn.
    I finally went to bed. I was too tired to eat and too tired to shower. I stripped off to my T-shirt and lay with the covers around my chin, my mind awash with thoughts and images, and I wondered whether, indeed, I was too tired to sleep.
    But I wasn’t. It must have been minutes after my head hit the pillow that the thoughts and images became dreams.
    The slim, shadowy figure of a girl – I couldn’t see her face. She was climbing a tree. A huge tree, possibly an elm. The girl had to be Emily, surely, And there was another girl with her. That had to be Margaret. Emily called her name, laughingly. ‘Margaret!’ Over and over. And, gradually, the image of Margaret became me.
    Then we were in the old house, sitting together in the downstairs front room, a cosy fire crackling in the grate. And, as we talked, Emily’s image slowly became clear to me. But she was no longer a young girl. Her hair was white and I watched her gnarled hands as they busied themselves with the hot water bottle cover she was crocheting. I couldn’t see her face.
    ‘It never ceases to amaze me how cold a Sydney winter’s night can become,’ she was saying. ‘Not as cold as Halstead, I’ll grant you, but they come as a surprise nonetheless.’
    Then she turned to me. ‘You must write that book, Margaret, she said suddenly. And it was the face of Grandma Rose. ‘You owe it to me to write that book, my dear.’ It was said kindly enough, but it was an order. ‘I want to see your words in print. A published author. That would be something to be proud of, don’t you think?’ She put down her knitting and stared into the fire. ‘Writing is such pleasure, do you not agree? The English language is so rich.
    Out of us all
    That make rhymes,
    Will you choose
    Sometimes -
    As the winds use
    A crack in the wall
    Or a drain,
    Their joy or their pain
    To whistle through -
    Choose me,
    You English words?
    ‘Do you remember?’ She turned to me. ‘I sent you a copy all those years ago. Edward Thomas.’ She smiled and the face was no longer that of Grandma Rose. This had to be Emily.
    It was a beautiful face. The eyes, although faded with age, were alive, exhilarated. ‘Edward Thomas,’ she repeated. ‘To think that Harry knew him – a man who wrote a verse like that.’ Then she turned back to the fire. ‘It was always my favourite poem.’
    Other images followed, but they all became a blur and I awoke the next morning with nothing left but the